"You flatter me," Ramage said, thinking that Admiral Poitier's compliment meant a good deal more than the grudging treatment he had recently received from the commander-in-chief on the Jamaica Station. "However . . ." he said, his tone changing to indicate that the conversation was now taking a different turn, "I believe you were engaged upon 'a special service', with your frigates and the bomb ketches."
"Of course not," Poitier said slowly, as if considering each word. "Just a routine cruise."
"With bomb ketches?"
"I met them by chance."
"But three frigates and two bomb ketches - an unusual squadron to be cruising in the Mediterranean, you must admit. What targets are there for bomb ketches? With few ships of my own country - this one is almost an exception - in the Mediterranean, is not a squadron of three frigates rather large?"
Poitier could not see that the documents on the desk came from his own cabin in the Furet, Ramage realized. Most British naval officers would know that such grey-tinted paper would not be used by the Admiralty or commanders-in-chief, but, after years of war, a Frenchman would have forgotten that really white paper still existed.
"Admiral," Ramage began, tapping the small pile of documents, "I have been -"
He had heard someone clattering down the companionway and now the sentry knocking on the door interrupted him. "Captain, sir: Mr Aitken would like to see you."
"Send him in."
Aitken had a broad grin on his face and Ramage realized that the Scot was a handsome fellow, a fact which was usually disguised by his sombre expression.
Noting Poitier's presence, the first lieutenant said: "May I report to you privately, sir?"
Damn! Ramage had spent some time leading up to the right moment - creating it, in fact - when he would confront Poitier and force the secret of the expedition out of him. Now Aitken had arrived at the wrong moment. Yet Aitken would not have intruded unless. . . Ramage picked up his hat and followed the Scotsman from the cabin, telling the sentry to latch back the door and keep an eye on the prisoner.
Halfway up the companionway Ramage hissed up at Aitken: "What's happened?"
"That xebec, sir: Wagstaffe's sent it. Orsini's brought news of what happened at Porto Ercole."
Ramage stopped climbing. "What happened that we don't know about?"
"Well, nothing really important, sir," Aitken said lamely. "I just thought -"
"Very well, tell Orsini to wait: I want half an hour with this French officer ..."
Aitken acknowledged the order and Ramage went down the companionway, apologized to a startled Poitier for the interruption, and sat down at his desk after dropping his hat on the settee once again.
"We were discussing your orders," he reminded Poitier, "and you claimed you were on a routine cruise."
"Yes," Poitier said, obviously becoming bored, as well as tired and shaky from his leg wound. "A routine cruise. We'd sighted nothing; we needed wood and water . . ."
"Why choose Porto Ercole and not a large port like Leghorn?"
"Light winds," Poitier said smoothly. "It would have taken days -"
"But you arrived off Argentario from the direction of Leghorn," Ramage interrupted. "I saw you."
"That is true," Poitier admitted. "I like Porto Ercole. The wine, plenty of wild boar from the Maremma, as much fresh water and wood as we need . . ." The Frenchman's voice had a confidential note, as though he was confessing to Ramage that he had a weakness for roast boar.
Ramage nodded understandingly but then the Frenchman saw his eyes narrow, the skin over his cheeks and nose tautening, and his left hand slap down three or four times on some papers, the heavy signet ring on the little finger banging on the desk top. "Admiral, you were engaged in some secret operation. I want to know what it was."
Poitier held out his hands, palms upwards. "Yes, I admit it, of course. The bomb ketches give that away. The details I do not know: they were secret, you understand - probably only the Minister of Marine and a few others would know the details. Nothing was in writing - except for assembling some of the ships. Only the senior army commanders and the admirals received verbal orders about the destination. You do the same in England."
Ramage did not bother to contradict him; there was no point in telling him that the details of most secret operations were usually the talk of fashionable London drawing rooms for days and weeks beforehand. The idea of a secret operation being mounted from Britain was almost ludicrous, unless only one or two ships were involved.
"Nevertheless, because your role in this operation is now over, Admiral, I should be interested to know what it was."
Poitier eased his wounded leg and nodded. "Yes, I suppose there can be no harm in telling you: the seamen in all three frigates knew - the regular ship gossip, of course. We were to embark cavalry, infantry and artillery at Porto Ercole and carry them elsewhere. We were doing that when my - when your," he corrected himself, "bomb ketches attacked."
"Where were you to transport them?"
Poitier shrugged his shoulders most convincingly. "I do not know: I was expecting a messenger hourly from the Minister in Paris with further orders. He had not arrived when you attacked."
Ramage saw that the Frenchman had been quick with his story and it was convincing enough for Poitier to be able to keep to it. The messenger from Paris . . . delayed as the frigates prepared to sail... so likely, so readily understood by an enemy officer. Poitier might be feeling weary and his leg might hurt, but he was thinking quickly and clearly. Very well, the pressure must be applied; another turn taken up on the rack.
Ramage said quickly but firmly, his fingers tapping on the papers as though it was a nervous habit: "I must know your ultimate destination, Admiral. It affects the safety of my country and the lives of my countrymen."
"I am sorry I cannot help you, Lord Ramage," Poitier said regretfully. "I am a prisoner and no further use to my own country, but I was told so little."
The Frenchman had changed in the last few minutes - from the time that Aitken had come in. His complexion was less grey, his face less lined, and he was sitting upright in the chair now, as though this was his cabin and Ramage merely a tiresome visitor. Ramage felt instinctively that the longer he kept the admiral sitting there in the armchair the less chance he had of wringing any secrets out of him. The Frenchman's confidence had imperceptibly returned. Now was the time for gentle threats - and perhaps some that were not so gentle.
"I have no wish to be burdened with so many prisoners," Ramage said conversationally, "so I am proposing to land all of you at Porto Ercole, providing each of you signs the usual agreement not to serve again until regularly exchanged. You agree to that?"
Poitier nodded eagerly, wincing as the movement jerked his leg. "Yes, of course. It is generous of you. You can go into Porto Ercole under a flag of truce."
"Very well, we shall do that. However, there is one small question. Small for me," he said, tapping the papers again, "but of more consequence for you."
Poitier looked at him warily. "What is it? I've agreed to the exchange - which takes nearly three hundred prisoners off your hands. They could rise and take your ship."
"They could not," Ramage said shortly. "We rescued them from drowning, but any sign that they are not suitably grateful means that they get a whiff of canister shot fired into the middle of them. No, I was thinking of your own particular position."
"My own position? Well, if I sign an exchange agreement, presumably you will put me on shore with the rest. You will have my parole."
"Yes," Ramage said carefully, "and at the moment, only two people know that you did not dispose of your most secret papers - you, and me."